target
by Okuyukashii
Summary: Temari. Gaara—oneshot—The insulting words aimed at him sear into my chest. I was taught that Gaara was different from us. Still, this blood bond with him is stronger than anyone's interference.


.

.

.

[target]  
_**O**__kuyukashii_

.

**I don't own Naruto.**

.

.

.

I hear Father yelling at Gaara.

It's different. Usually there's Yashamaru, soft, sweet and kind, always protecting him from others and himself. But Father caught wind of what happened today.

Gaara lost his temper.

It's not the first time something like this has happened. But I just know something's going to...

I was training with shuriken, target practice on moving targets. The small boards move around, attached to a mechanism. I had decided to start at the lowest speed and work my way up.

I'd just finished the lowest Academy speed—that is to say, none at all. Just when they began to move at a snail's pace, I heard the yelling.

Gaara isn't normal. That's what they tell me. I can see this divide myself, every single day.

Father is still scolding him furiously. His voice is raised and every word sears into my chest.

"Do you think _I_ make trouble? Who's the troublemaker, me or you?"

"...me."

I don't understand why it hurts. Perhaps it's because he's half crying. But I can tell he's mad.

Gaara was not right. I don't condone the fact that he injured that chuunin. But somehow, as he reacts in a desperate, childish anger, I feel a strong tug of sympathy.

He...I suspect he is the reason I am too old for my age.

Father has just said that he wouldn't let Gaara have any of his toys for the next week.

"And if I _ever_ hear or see that you do it again, you will never have your precious toys again!"

It may seem like a surprise that a boy like Gaara is so attached to his toys, but it's true. I see him in his room sometimes, with all the gifts he's been showered with. They are his friends, because anyone who doesn't run away in fear will only give him a present to placate him and leave. If he's mad, everyone bends to his will. He always gets everything he wants. (There are exceptions, but they aren't worth mentioning.

Of course, I didn't include Father in that statement.)

I sound bitter. Maybe I am, a little.

I hear the sound of something being thrown inside.

The thump of the last shuriken hitting the target reminds me of what I'm doing. It's funny; in my daze, I hit every target dead center. I haven't missed yet.

He is demanding that Gaara tell him exactly what happened. Gaara tries to parrot what the other chuunin reported to Father, but Father won't have it. He wants every detail.

Now is when Gaara's anger recedes, and he's trying to please Father now.

'Shut up,' I want to tell him, 'It's useless, do what he says.'

Obviously, he can't. Expressing himself has never been Gaara's strong point, and I know this. I know.

So I continuing to throw my weapons at the targets like a machine. It doesn't stop the words from reaching me.

"I will not negotiate with an _idiot_! How many times do I have to tell you—"

The targets are moving at jounin speed now, almost too fast for the naked eye to see. I still have not missed yet.

"Can't I just—"

Gaara's high-pitched, boyish voice shakes a little.

I miss for the first time, by the smallest margin.

"_I don't want to hear it!_"

I miss five more, once in each different, higher speed, but I've hit more than a hundered. I give up when I finish the fastest jounin level.

How ironic.

I'm not boasting when I say that the skill I've just demonstrated is remarkable for my age. It's not child prodigy-worthy, but amazing all the same.

And yet, Gaara is who they pay attention to. Gaara, who was born that way. Gaara, who causes them far more trouble than I do.

While I stand outside sweating and throwing lethal weapons around.

They expect this, though. They want me to be jealous, cruel. They want me to hate him.

I never could. I get envious, I admit that. I can be cruel to him now, because I know that someday, if I treat him that way he will overpower me.

But I could never hate him.

"Daddy?"

"_Don't call me that anymore_."

Someone get this crushing feeling off my chest.

_I can't take it anymore._

This is what it's like to be an older sister.

No one expects the pain.

"If you cry, no one is _obligated_ to listen to you. I don't want to hear you cry!"

But maybe I am inside. Just a little.

.

.

.

**I wasn't exactly throwing sharp, pointy things. But I was hitting aliens with baseballs in a game on TinierMe.**

**This certainly isn't the best I've done, but like ****airhead****, I was in a mood and needed it on the Internet as a vent.**


End file.
